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The blackened sky above you rained down hellfire, your ears ringing with the sounds of weapon blasting. Around you the ground was erupting into flames, a nearby explosion nearly knocking you off your feet.
He was there, Thanos. His arm adorned with the gauntlet which held the power to kill everyone you have ever loved. To kill half of the planet’s population.
When face to face with his looming figure you blasted him using every ounce of energy within your body focusing it towards ending him, towards ending his plight to kill billions.
You thought you had him, you could see his struggle, your power hindering him from moving his arm. You could feel the triumph flowing through your veins, your heart pumping with the sound of oncoming victory.
Then with one swift movement he knocked you off of your feet, and you could nothing but stare up at him in horror as he snapped his fingers.
He had won.
The sounds of war ceased, a deafening silence piercing your ears. You screamed in agony. You cried out for your friends, for Bruce, for Nat, for Steve.
No answer came.
The only sound that accompanied your cries was that of Thanos’ laugh. His menacing cadence drowning out your pleading in his amusement.
They were gone.
You were alone.
You couldn’t save them.
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Your head shot up off the pillow, as your eyes darted across the room. It took you a moment to recognize your surroundings, the pounding in your chest making it hard to focus. As your vision became clear you began to recognize the familiar walls. The bookshelf lined with your favorite stories, the large bean bag you kept in the corner for reading.
You were in your bedroom, confined within the walls of the Avenger’s compound.
You were safe.
But it sure as hell didn’t feel that way.
You threw the blankets off of your waist before stumbling to the door. Your mind still in a daze as you ignored the cold tile under your bare feet and padded your way down the hall. You could feel your body tremble with each step, the tears in your eyes clouding your vision as you made your way into the kitchen.
You had supposed that everyone else was asleep, but that assumption was soon proven wrong by the sight of Bruce digging through the kitchen cabinets. He was looking for something, a steaming mug of chamomile sat in front of him upon the counter.
You watched him for a moment, his face bearing a look of confusion and concentration as he sorted through ingredients and utensils. It was still so strange to see him there, to see him back after his leave of absence.
You had never stopped searching. For years you scoured databases, traveled continents, and conducted worldwide rescue missions, but all of them came up short. You never found him, you never got the pleasure of bringing him home.
So, you grieved.
For the past year, you had been going through the process of healing. You cried until the tears stopped coming, until the hole in your heart stopped aching and instead began to just grow used to the empty space. He was gone, and just as you began to finally feel whole without him, he walked into the compound as if time hadn’t passed.
What had been two years for you, had been two days to him. In his mind the love you had grown so used to living without was still very much present
He still loved you, just as much as he did the day he left all those years ago.
“Ah!” Bruce yelped, the sight of you stood in the doorway startling him and causing him to drop the mug of tea that had been in his hand.
“Shit.” he winced, as he clasped his hand, the boiling hot liquid burning his skin.
“Bruce, I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He looked up to meet your gaze, a melancholy and concerned look upon his face as his eyes meticulously scanned your shaken form.
“I-it’s okay, you didn’t mean to,” he responded, a feigned smile on his lips.
You made your way to where he was standing before gently taking his hand into your own. Wordlessly, you turned on the faucet and ran cold water over his burned skin, your fingers handling his injury with delicacy and care.
This was the closest you two had been since he disappeared, the first time you had felt his calloused hands encased in your own since just before the events in Sokovia. You could see the way Bruce was looking at you, a sense of longing in his expression as he resisted the urge to press himself up against you, to envelop himself in your warmth.
After his arrival, you had told him you needed space. Your mind was too engrossed in loss and grief to think about romance. You couldn’t allow yourself to be happy, not when your friends had just been turned to dust.
It was clear that Bruce was hurt by your decision, the look of disappointment on his face unmistakable, but he still respected your wishes and kept his distance. His stolen glances and longing stares, however, had not gone unnoticed. The sadness in his expression always made you want to run and take him in your arms, but you never did. You maintained the practice of isolating yourself, of pushing people away.
Even those you loved the most.
Now here you were, standing in the kitchen, holding his hand. If in any other set of circumstances you probably would have just gone back to bed, but it was something about seeing him hurt that made all the difference. Seeing him in pain made the walls you had built crumble to the ground, causing you to instinctively rush to his side.
“Thank you,” Bruce whispered as you turned off the tap, his gaze locked on the sight of his hand clasped in yours.
“It's no problem. Are you okay?”
“I’m just fine,” he responded, his words laced with reassurance. “Are you?”
It was then that you remembered why you had come to the kitchen in the first place, the nightmare that had sent you into a state of pure terror. What had started as a simple walk to get a glass of water, had turned into you having to conduct a conversation you weren’t sure if you were ready to have.
“I’m okay.”, you lied. You knew your attempt at dishonesty would be in vain. Bruce always knew when you were upset. It was as if he some sort of internal radar, a natural instinct that could detect even the smallest amount of anxiousness.
“You can talk to me, you know. I’ll always listen.”
Your gaze cast down onto the sight of your hand still interlocked with his. You hadn’t let go, despite the fact it had been full minutes since the faucet had been turned off.
Finally, you gathered the courage to look him in the eye, the tears you had been holding back now beginning to pool below your irises. You felt the way he squeezed your hand ever so gently, a look of sadness and care upon his face.
He looked tired, his rich brown eyes decorated with dark circles. It was then that you realized that in the midst of your grieving you had left him alone. He had been through hell, and you hadn’t been there to comfort him.
He had lost two years of his life, he had witnessed the deaths of hundreds of innocent Asguardians, he had watched half the population of the world vanish, all since you had last held his hand.
And you left him alone.
“I’m sorry.” You choked. “I-I’m sorry for shutting you out, I’m sorry for not being there I-I”
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Bruce responded, resisting the urge to reach out to you, still wanting to respect your wishes.
“I-I’m not angry with you. The world just fell apart Y/N, I-I don’t expect you to have it all figured out at the moment. Don’t worry about me.”
His fingers began gently rubbing the back of your hand, his words filling you with warmth.
“But I’m right here if you need me.”
“Just say the word and I’m yours.”
At this point a tear had begun slipping down your cheek, Bruce’s warm hold being the only thing steadying your shaking hand. All of your internal conflicts were coming to a head, it was time to stop hiding away, it was time to face reality.
Your friends may be gone.
But, that didn’t mean that you had to be alone.
You squeezed his hand tighter, the tears blurring your vision as you locked your gaze with his own.
“I-I need you.”
Then without hesitation, Bruce wrapped you in a tight embrace. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, as the other cradled your head to his chest. You cried into his shirt, your fists gripping the fabric for the fear that he would be taken away from you, that he would turn to dust in your arms.
“I’ve got you.” He whispered, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your hairline.
“I’m right here.”